


Nocturne in Blue

by LaDolceMia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, It makes me so happy that there is an existing Stream of Consciousness tag, Rene Char epigraphs because of reasons, Stream of Consciousness, The vagaries of ficcing, Why would I do this to myself?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaDolceMia/pseuds/LaDolceMia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When stars die, they are extraordinarily luminous, sometimes briefly flaring brighter than the entire galaxy around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nocturne in Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Under no circumstances have I ever, nor will I ever, read tragic slash. It would seem logical, therefore, that I would never _write_ it, either.
> 
> ~
> 
> Button-clickers, never doubt that kudos are always warmly appreciated. They let me know if I'm pleasing readers which is something I very much like to do.

  


  
_Larks of the night, stars,  
whirling at the wellsprings of abandon,  
be progress to the brows that sleep._

René Char, _The Meteor of August 13 (Novae)_

 

Stars are beautiful aren't they? And so very hot. Five hundred billion kelvins when they go supernova; a white scorch so high it's inconceivable, really. Burn you to an ounce of ash in less than a millisecond from a thousand kilometers away. Your entire body like a dandelion puff blown into nothingness by a huff of breath. 

"Sherlock?! Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sound can't travel in the vacuum of space. He remembers that. More important than that bit about the sun revolving around the earth– or was it the other– Who is calling him? 

"Oh god you're–" 

So wet the shirt actually _drips_ where John's pulling at the cloth. 

"Jesus! Sherlock? Okay. It's going to be alright. Let me–" 

Hands. Wonderful. His are. Do you– d'you remember the first time we touched, John? I do. I remember each time. They're catalogued. Special index. Never delete.

Buttons, fingers, a peeling sensation as the fabric unsticks. _Oh_. They feel so good against his skin. Cool. 

John. Your hands. I–

"Here, can you lift– just a little there?"

And he can lift, yes. Anything for John. Without the drenched shirt, the air moves blissfully across his skin and– Oh. John. Very close.

Peering into his face.

John is beautiful. John isn't a star but he's beautiful and blurry at the edges like one. _Johhn_. It feels lovely in his mouth, the syllable. Makes his lips vibrate. John. Is pulling at him, is blurry, is beautiful. The stars are hot, John, very very hot, look: Do you see them? 

"Did you say something? 'Hot'? I know you're hot, we're going to get you straightened out." 

Hand on cheek, hand on wrist; memorized. (Two at once for the file!). His pulse is elevated, he knows because he can feel it hurling itself against his sternum; certain his pupils are dilated, too. So now John will discover the secret. 

Will discover that whenever John touches him, his heart runs like a wild horse over a hill, will find out that whenever he's close, his irises fall away in a dead faint of desire. John will finally deduce the truth. It will be marvelous. John will smile, surprised, and then kiss him and laugh and shake his head and kiss him again.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Your pulse is very high and your pupils are dilated. You're ill with fever."

No! As usual, you see but do not.. you observe, but you...

"No, don't try to sit up. I'm going to run upstairs and get my kit, I'll be right back." 

Tender touch on his arm. John smiles with his hands, how does he do that?

It's so clear in the blurred haze: _I love you, John_. He's not afraid anymore and he says it out loud to the empty room as clearly as the bell in St. Mary's tower that rings every Sunday. That clarion clang whose echo he eagerly listens to drifting off the air, knowing it means the next sound he'll hear is John; the creak of bedframe overhead as he rolls, as he stirs. Someday he'll be up there touching him, warm in the sunlight and moist with sleep, pillow marks on his face kiss those first because.. because... 

Every Sunday when the bell tolls he imagines what it will be like when he finally finds the courage: Up the stairs, through the door without even knocking. The light pouring in through the curtain's billowy fingers; John's blinking eyes. He smiles with his eyes, how does he do that? Eyes would smile, narrow lips would smile, smiling wrinkles would crease happily and Sherlock would just fall, light and ethereal towards the duvet, fall and fall right into the outstretched arms, John—

It's not far, the trip from bed to floor, but he's not a very well-padded traveler. The landing thuds with a cringe-worthy resound. 

He hears waves, pounding the shore two at a time. John's face rises into view. Like the sun. Beautiful. The sand is very hard under his back.

"Bloody Christ! No– don't move, let me–"

And his– yes. Oh. Hands. All over him. Touch me John. And he is, except that he isn't, not how he needs him to. Doctor Watson palpates; skull to ankles, searching for places where the floorboards might've cracked a hard thing or dangerously bloodied a soft thing.

His own hand is heavy, swimming through honey, reaching. Touch John. Voice even heavier, a thick slur that wants to be _Touch you_ but is only a groan. 

John captures the floating hand, lowers it gently back to his chest– No! Touch _John_. You. You you you.

Cold in my ear– a spoon? Why would you put a spoon– Do you remember dinner, that first night that we–

Something next to his head beeps. Then, a sharp suck of air. Tight knife of panic in the voice. "Oh god."

"Sherlock? Listen to me, can you hear me? We're going to need to get you into a bath. _Now_."

Verticality is not kind. The sway is precipitous, but John stiffens his hold. Sturdy. Sturdy John.

Under the bridge, John. Do you remember the stars? 

"'kay. There we go. We have to hurry." Arm hoisted around the good shoulder. A foot is dragging. Couldn't be his; he's.. weightless. Floating in indigo sky, with this glowing thing against his body.. it's John. John is warm. John is...

"You have to drink this. Here, open–"

That night. That smile. Your eyes blue like the dark sky. I think it was there, then, that was the moment I–

"Sherlock! Can you hear me? It's liquid paracetamol. You have to swallow this– can you?"

Oh wretched. Want good tea, John. This is terrible tea. Remember the time I made you coffee and–

Wet trouser cuffs. Did I spill? Oh, it's raining. Why are we in the bathroom– But I'm still– can't wash with clothes on. John is silly John. In bathtub in trousers. Oh but the porcelain is cool ice, the tepid water a sliding thing. I like the way it feels, John. Come in, let me kiss you. In the water. Swim with me.

The stars are wet, John.

"Did you say something?! Oh god, Sherlock please."

Hands, oh. Yes. Cheek. Forehead. Wet hair out of my eyes. I love you, John. Now Mrs. Hudson will have Married Ones, too. I'm sorry I waited so long, but isn't it wonderful, now that we can, now that I'm going to tell you how I–

"Anthea, get him _now_! We need special evac, cardiac on site. I've already rung 999, but–"

John is shouting. He's excited. About nines, apparently. Will kiss you nine times then. Nine hundred times. Just lean down, I can't lean up, I'm– very tired.

"Sherlock! God please no– NO!–"

It's terribly hot. Just need to rest a moment. It's too loud, your beating your fist there. Shh. Quiet for sleep. You don't have to thump there. Heart already belongs to you.

Oh no. No no. Why is John sobbing? 

Don't cry, John. Tomorrow is Sunday. When St. Mary's bell rings, I'm finally going to climb the stairs to your room.

 

I can already see the light.


End file.
